Guilty of inducing boredom as well, this sordid, ill-written memoir by a retired thief and ex-addict adds little to one's knowledge of Burroughs, Ginsberg, Kerouac and the post-World War II drug scene. Typical of Huncke's remarks are that his father was a ``miserable bastard,'' his mother ``had a pair of legs on her that were really something, and she knew how to conduct herself,'' and that when he smelled an onion field he ``first realized that there was something beyond all our petty personal quarrels and arguments.'' Variously a ship's cook and deckhand, Huncke preferred burglary, thievery, street beggary, acting as a shill for pickpockets, getting paid $10 by Kinsey to talk about his sexual experiences. Now on methadone, he preaches against the use of drugs and alcohol. Photos. (May)